


Our Veins Are Thin, Our Rivers Poisoned

by puella_nerdii



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Magic, Post - A Storm of Swords, Religious Conflict, Sensation Play, creepy conversion porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:30:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puella_nerdii/pseuds/puella_nerdii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melisandre is bent on giving Davos the light of R'hllor, and Davos will have none of this new cruel god -- or so he hopes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Veins Are Thin, Our Rivers Poisoned

Davos cannot greet the cells beneath Dragonstone with relief, but they are not the pyres of R'hllor, and he can take some small comfort in that. The darkness here isn't the same companion to him that it was when he was a smuggler, though it is nearly as constant, but the snarks and grumkins he heard stories of as a child have nothing on the terrors he has seen birthed from light. Given a choice between the shadows and the things that lurk in them, he might well choose—

The guards slam the cell door behind him, and when Davos poses that choice to himself again, his answer rings hollow.

He hears no bolt slide into place, no key click, and for a moment he allows himself to hope. They haven't chained him or beaten him; his king's men escorted him from the throne room with his hands unbound, and told him he was to wait here while Stannis and Melisandre spoke. _You'll not wait long_ , they promised him, and warm as the cell is, the thought still makes him shiver. He should be with Stannis now. Until Stannis strips him of the title, he is Hand of the King. He may be only a knight of fish and onions, and the most baseborn of lords, and hardly fit to govern a small council or issue commands in the king's absence, but he is the King's Hand, and the King's Hand can do little when it is cut off and locked in the dark.

But what more could he say, if Stannis had let him remain? He gave his king his honesty, and a letter. He has nothing else to offer, nothing else to lay at Stannis's feet, nothing else to serve as his shield: no gold, no soldiers, no sorcery. He gave all he had to give, and now he must pray it will be enough. _Let him take my life_ , he prays to the seventh, to the god never honored in song, _but let him heed me. Let him remember his true subjects._ Stannis was—is—a just man. He will protect his realm. He will protect his people, whether they rest a crown on his head or not. He has to. He _must_.

Davos has never missed the weight of his luck around his neck as much as he does now.

The door creaks. He jumps at the noise, retreats to the gloom at the back of the cell, but Melisandre sweeps it aside as she enters. She glows now, bright as the torch in her hand, and Davos tries to bring himself to look away.

"This is not the first time I have traveled under the earth to give you the gift of R'hllor," she says. "Will you spurn it again?"

"Will you kill me?" he asks.

Her lips are red, red as the ruby around her neck, and the color makes her smile all the sharper. "Would you have me kill you?"

"Your god requires sacrifices," he says. The last word makes his lip curl. "Do you mean to take me in place of Edric Storm?"

Melisandre lifts her torch higher; the light melts down her hand, plays over her skin. The patterns in the flame shimmer and twist, catch the corners of his eyes. He shuts them. He must not let the flames bewitch him as they have so many others. "Only a king's blood can wake the dragons from their stony sleep."

He dares not ask what his blood can do. Instead he waits, and the stone under his feet trembles with each beat of his heart. Can she feel it, too? Her face, as always, betrays nothing. He would say she might as well be stone herself, but no, the fires behind her eyes burn too brightly, even if he cannot read them. Nor does he wish to learn, he reminds himself, turning his head away. The letters of the Common Tongue are enough for him.

"Yours is not the blood of a king," she continues. "What _is_ your blood, ser? What is it that fills your heart?"

Her hand is at his chest, now, her fingers tented as though she means to rip his heart from him. The cells are warm, but Davos cannot stop himself from shivering. She sees, and smiles. There is no malice in it, only understanding, and that chills him deeper than the rest.

"Not the light of R'hllor, or you would not shy from my touch," she says. "But R'hllor does not bar himself from _you_. You have done him a great service."

"No. I have served my king."

Her laugh is soft, but it's the loudest sound in the gathering dark. "And who do you think your king serves?"

"The realm," he insists, his jaw tightening.

"I have told you that R'hllor cares nothing for the game of thrones. You brought us the news of the terrors massing in the north; what are your southern wars when the Others arrive on the wings of winter?" Her hand slides lower, to his stomach, and the torch's flame hisses closer to his skin, threatens to singe his hair. "What is the Iron Throne, when a man can sit astride a dragon?"

"I've seen no dragons," he says.

Her eyes narrow, the torchlight billows, and for a moment Davos wonders if he's gone too far, if he should duck before the fires consume him. But the torch returns to its normal shape, and Melisandre is smiling again. The ends of her mouth curl up like a cat's. "You see nothing," she says. "You could see so much, if only you would cast aside the darkness. It only blinds you to the truth, ser."

"I have my truths."

She laughs, and this time the flame seems to laugh with her, twisting and curling with the sound of it. "Your honesty is rare enough, I'll grant you that. But honesty is not truth."

The torch is close to his cheek, close enough that the flame almost licks his ear. It spits at him, and he flinches back, bites his lip so he'll not cry out. "Then what is truth?"

"There is no god but R'hllor," she says. "And only he can grant you sight."

And with that, the light vanishes.

Davos holds his hand to where the torch was moments ago, but the air's as cold as though nothing ever burned there. His cheek and ear cool, and his blood draws back from his intact fingertips until he no longer feels them there. He blows on his hands, but if there's any warmth left in his breath it withers before it reaches them. His breathing echoes in his ears: harsh, unsteady. _I am still in my cell_ , he reminds himself. _I am beneath Dragonstone._ The walls will warm him, if he can find where they are.

He stretches his hands out and the darkness pushes back against them, thick and heavy. Haltingly, he steps forward, but it feels like walking through water: unseen currents tug at his wrists and ankles, creep under his clothes. His breath slows, thickens, and what air he does manage to take in settles heavily in his chest. The wall should be to his right, but no matter how far he stretches he can't feel it. The cold crawls up his fingers and through his palms, and he starts to lose the sense of where his hands are at all.

"We are helpless without the light." Melisandre's voice echoes, but from where, Davos cannot say. Her voice splits into several others: some whispering, some shouting, some murmuring in his ear like a lover. He closes his eyes, but the world gets no darker.

"Without light, how can we know the perils before us? How can we find the path of righteousness?"

Davos sets his jaw and starts towards the wall again—away from her, or so he hopes. If he puts one foot in front of the other, if he breathes, if he knows where his hands are, he'll manage. He must. _Mother, guide me,_ he prays. _Lead me from this place._

Another step, and another. His feet grow heavier, and his knees sag, refuse to bear his weight like this. But he's borne worse, surely. He pulls himself upright, as straight as his back will allow, and wills himself forward. He sets his foot down again—and it catches on something, some jagged edge of the floor, and Davos can keep himself standing no longer. He tries to throw out his hands to break his fall, but by now they're little more than lumps at the ends of his wrists. The impact jolts through his arms and pain follows, sharp enough to wake his hands up but too short for him to do something about it. They freeze again, and the chill sinks deeper into Davos's bones.

"R'hllor is not a cruel god. How could he be, when he gives us so many gifts? He gives us light to see by, and fires to warm ourselves."

He needs to stand. His arms lock into place, unable to bend, as though icy fingers hold them in place. Davos can feel the cold in his teeth, in his throat, in his chest. If he could see anything at all, he would see his breath, he's certain.

"He gives us light for truth, and fire for judgment."

 _And his judgment would condemn an innocent boy to burn,_ Davos wants to say, but his tongue will not shape the words.

"All he asks for in return is that we stand with him against the darkness." She speaks with one voice again. Her breath brushes his ear, and he strains towards its fleeting warmth before he can stop himself. "Do you want the darkness, Davos? Do you want the cold, the fear, the pain?"

"No," he whispers, his lips thick and numb.

"Then embrace the light," she says, and shines with such brilliance that it sears his eyes. He claps his hand over them, and ghost-images of flame dance beneath his eyelids.

"Why do you shrink from the light, ser? Would you prefer the dark?"

Even with his eyes covered he can tell when she douses whatever flame illuminates her from within. "No," he says again, before he can think better of it, before the cold returns to claim him. "It was too bright."

"You have been in darkness too long," she says. "Even when R'hllor's gift stands before you, you cannot bear to look at it. I understand, Davos. The Unnamed God keeps us in poverty, so that we may not behold splendor. I will show you only a part of R'hllor's glory, then, if it suits you."

 _Mother, help me._

He waits, but neither Maiden nor Mother nor Crone arrives with a candle to light the way from his cell. The Warrior does not brandish his flaming standard, and the Smith does not emerge from his blazing forge. The Father holds no lantern high, and if the Stranger shines a light for him, Davos does not wish to see it. Not now.

"The light," he says. His chest clamps tight. _Any other light but this,_ he prays, but the world remains black.

"The light," she echoes, and appears before him again, closer than where he last remembers her. She glows, a torch rather than a signal fire, red light threading under her skin. Even that pains him to look at, when he stares at the patterns for too long. He reaches up, holds his fingers to the warmth gathering around her, and cannot say if his hands are red from her glow or if they have cracked and chapped from the cold.

"Let me warm you," she says, and before he can answer she takes his hand, pulls him to his feet faster than he thought possible, draws his fingers into her mouth.

He shouts, though his throat is still too numb to feel it, but the heat of her mouth shatters the ice in his hands. Her tongue scalds his fingertips, wakes the blood in them all at once. Davos's eyes water, but he dares not blink that away, dares not stop looking at her. Her teeth graze his knuckles; he hisses, and feels his skin hiss, too, steam rising from his hand and vanishing as a tingling burn spreads through it. When she releases his hand, he shivers, staggers back, but not before she kisses the tips of his shortened fingers, one at a time.

The stubs _sing_ in a way he never thought they could, ache with heat flowing to places he thought forgotten, and the force of it is almost enough to drive him to his knees. Melisandre smiles at him, her teeth so white, her mouth so red, and draws his fingers into her mouth again: one at a time, her lips gliding so slowly down them that they almost feel their proper length again.

She brings his palm to her cheek. Her flesh is alight in a way he has never felt—not feverish but radiant, and his palm starts to sweat from it. "You need this," she says, "don't you?"

The blood in his veins chills, despite the heat.

Then the heat is gone, and she is gone, and the darkness swallows him again. The warmth flees his body and cold rushes in to replace it, cold thick enough to stiffen all the joints in his fingers that she warmed. They freeze at odd angles, lock into place, and he _will not scream_ , but blood wells in his mouth and he wonders, dizzily, how far he must have bitten through his lip.

"There is devotion, and there is stubbornness," Melisandre says. Each word sparks somewhere in the blackness, but fades before Davos can see where it comes from. "Look around you, ser. What do you see?"

"Nothing," he whispers. Ice lances through his lungs, and each gasp he takes feels as though he's breathing through knives. He shouldn't grow so cold so quickly. He should not, but he is, and if he can think of nothing better than that right now, his wits must be as frozen as everything else.

"Nothing," she repeats. " _You need the light_ , or there is nothing."

There is nothing but the dark, thick enough to drown in. He can't stop shivering.

"Shall I return it to you?"

The only answer he can give is, "Yes."

His body awakens again, and every inch of him burns as it does. Davos gasps and almost falls, but Melisandre is there to catch him, to ease him to the ground. His skin pulses where she touches him, and her mouth is on his, hot and hungry, breathing life into his lungs. _No_ , he thinks, but her hands tangle in his hair and trail down the back of his neck, across his shoulders, leave scalding trails on his skin.

Gods, how he burns. But whatever else this is, it isn't the cold.

She draws him down to her, and gods forgive him, Marya forgive him, he follows.

Her robes are spread beneath her and she is spread beneath him, naked and flushed, skin still aglow. He braces his hands on either side of her but she grabs his wrist and presses his palm to her breast. He groans, his fingers tightening, and hates himself for it after, but her breast is soft and supple and it's been so long. Too long. Is it her sorcery making him stiffen so fast, or is it that? He closes his eyes and dares not think more on the question.

"Take it, ser," she says, the corner of her mouth on his neck, her fingers deft on the laces of his trousers. "I give it freely."

He breathes, deep and shuddering, and swallows as best he can. His head inclines forward.

He feels her heat before she guides him inside her—she cries out as he sinks in, her voice echoing off the stone, and he wonders if the guards outside can hear, if all of Dragonstone can hear. She's wet enough to soak him, wet enough that sliding into her is easier than it has any right to be. Her heat enfolds him and for an instant his world colors as red as the stone around her neck. Sweat rolls down his neck, slow and heavy, and she rolls her hips against his in the same way. The friction scalds him to the core, and it's all he can do to keep himself braced on his hands, to keep from falling. But he _is_ falling, he fears, falling deeper and deeper with every thrust into whatever fire blazes at the center of her. He grits his teeth and tries to steady himself. There's no use; she slides her fingers beneath his shirt and draws them up his back and he feels his skin sear and crisp at her touch. Davos starts, his rhythm faltering, and she presses him forward again, her hands on his shoulderblades, her heels at the small of his back.

New fires are kindled under his skin everywhere she touches him, and he feeds them every time he moves against her. He doesn't stop moving.

"Ah, Davos," she moans; has she called him that before? He tries to recall but the heat casts a haze over his thoughts and he gives up the effort, buries himself in her again and pillows his forehead on his arm. She drives him faster and he meets her, his blood surging in response. He wets his lips and they dry an instant after. How does she stay wet with all of this blazing inside her? He doesn't know. There is so much he doesn't know. And now all he knows is the heat building behind his eyes, stuffing his ears, thickening in his mouth and chest and rushing lower. There is the ragged edge of his breath and the harsh sounds in his throat and the ceaseless motion of his hips and then there is only light, light enough to blind him.

When his senses return, he is shaking.

"Stannis will spare you," she murmurs, her hand on his cheek. Her touch has cooled, but it's still far warmer than his own. "You have done him a great service."

He remembers the last time she told him that, and draws back in horror. Gods, what has he helped her birth?

She smiles as though she's read his thoughts. "Do you require another reward?"

He turns away. Bright as she may be, he can look at her no longer.

"Dress, ser," she says. Presumably she is doing the same now. "You will be escorted to Stannis in half an hour's time. He will tell you your fate, and the task that awaits you."

Davos nods once, his head heavy.

"Until that time," she says, and the iron door rings shut behind her.

She doesn't leave him in the dark. He wonders if he should call that a mercy.


End file.
